


Falling Slowly

by Saras_Girl



Series: Foundations!verse [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:52:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/pseuds/Saras_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s not the only one who has fallen in love with a Slytherin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Slowly

Step one is noticing the tiny blonde girl on the first day of ‘real’ Healer training. The one who stands apart from everyone else, apparently disinterested in the buzz surrounding Harry Potter... or anything else, really. She just stands there, watching. When she catches him looking, she lifts an eyebrow and her accent is unexpectedly upper class: “Have you got anything to eat?”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step two is a furtive exchanged glance, their first, behind Harry’s back after receiving those new assignments a week later. It is relief, Schadenfreude, just a little bit of cruel delight. The knowledge that they—the three of them—are forming their own little group. Not because of a cause or a common interest, but just because they want to.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step three is throwing himself into an argument over patient-care between Cecile and Nurse Midgen, flinging himself between them and holding up his hands without thinking, doing it mostly because he hates conflict, and because he suspects that the two women aren’t really angry with each other, but with that moustachioed fool Tremellen. And when Harry joins them, Cecile says, “Terry apparently fancies himself as a mediator,” Eloise smiles, and three become four.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step four is the day she abandons her lunch break from Reversals, her fish and chips, and her good seat in the canteen because she hears he has accidentally turned himself purple on the children’s ward and she can’t wait to make fun of him in person.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step five is partway through a horrific day, a short break in dealing with an influx of nasty curse injuries; it’s a dramatic, “Fuck this, I want to be a Muggle!” and a tousled blonde head to the canteen table. An “Are you sure you’re a pureblood?” from Terry, a tentative pat on her damp, green-clad shoulder and a smile from Cecile so brilliant that the day suddenly glows brightly.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step six is a nightshift, a silent ward and slowly rotating chair containing a tired, frustrated Healer with her feet tucked underneath her and an open file in her lap. It’s an impenetrable Dark Arts case, drawn -out sighs and a wrinkled nose. It’s leaning on the nurses’ station and taking a risk, offering a suggestion and a fresh pair of eyes. It’s surprise—head whipping up and notes flying everywhere—and then irritation—fingers raking through messy blonde hair and pieces finally falling into place—and at last, gratitude—closed eyes, almost-smile, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the floor.  
  
“Thanks, Boot. _Boot, Boot, Boot_. I’m going to sleep now.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step seven is the day Draco Malfoy turns up at their table and _steals_ their Thursday flapjack... or more accurately, it’s the moment afterwards when Cecile starts grilling him about the “ _huge amount of sexual fucking tension between Harry and Malfoy, don’t you think_?” and he realises that he has no idea what he thinks, because he _thinks_ he spent the whole time watching her mouth as she talked. And he thinks it was pretty. “Yeah,” he says. “Sexual tension, definitely.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step eight is the rush of the emergency, watching her run, blonde hair whipping behind her, robes swishing to expose worn-out canvas shoes that look like they might fall apart at any moment. It’s the fact that he knows her family has money but she’s as determinedly scruffy as everyone else.   
  
**~*~**  
  
Step nine is an exasperated kiss on the cheek to release him from a mistletoe trap which leaves him flushed and mumbling, thinking that she smells of spices and has to lean right up on her tiptoes to kiss him. It’s the way that Harry and Eloise tease him about it for at least a week, and the way _she_ acts as though there’s nothing unusual about kissing people in doorways.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step ten is a canteen conversation during which Harry, El and Cecile all agree that it’s important to be more than just your job. To have interests and pastimes and ‘fascinating quirks’, she says. It’s staring into his coffee and knowing that all he’s ever wanted to do was be a Healer; it’s a heavy heart and a suppressed sigh. It’s wondering if she would find his collection of unusual teaspoons interesting.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step eleven is Harry and Malfoy’s Open Day, and the way they gravitate so inevitably toward the same bench where they sit together and provide a running commentary on proceedings. She leans against him ever so slightly when she laughs, and when she steals his weird skewered food, he doesn’t say anything. It’s the first time he’s ever seen her wearing a colour besides green.  
  
“Look at them,” he murmurs, pointing to a mostly-hidden angle of the house where Malfoy has Harry practically pinned against the wall. He’s never been into public displays of affection, but there’s something uncomfortably intense about the way they hold on and steal kisses that makes it hard to look away.  
  
Cecile follows his eyes and snorts. “They think we don’t notice.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step twelve is the cold weight of five Galleons slapping into his palm and the cross twist of her mouth at the loss. Knowing she doesn’t really mean it. Knowing she won’t miss the money. Knowing that disagreement is just what they do, and that some things never change.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step thirteen is an argument so fierce that it transforms her, narrowed eyes flashing fury and wand gripped tightly at her side. He knows that she casts with a power that belies her size, and even though his mother taught him never to duel with girls, he sometimes wants to, just to see if he could beat her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Harry and Eloise pretending not to watch from the nurses’ station. And pretending not to whisper. He can no longer remember what they’re arguing about, but most of the arguments end the same way, anyway.  
  
“Cecile?” he interrupts, and nothing happens. Rashly, he pokes her in the ribs with his wand, and the stream of vitriol comes to a halt. “Would you like to continue yelling at me over coffee?”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step fourteen is surprised green eyes, an intake of breath, a new smile. A rush of adrenaline that sweeps through his veins, prickles down his spine and makes him shove his wand into his pocket before he fumbles it and drops it on the floor.  
  
“This weekend would be good,” she suggests, and it takes a moment for him to realise what has just happened. It’s the most wonderful misunderstanding, and yet the astonishment of the whole thing causes his usual reticence to desert him.  
  
“I just meant... now... in the canteen, you know,” he mumbles, unable to catch the words in time.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step fifteen is a raised eyebrow, a step into his personal space and her scent in his nostrils. It’s, “No, you didn’t,” and it’s, “We should have cake, too.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step sixteen is an afternoon he can barely remember. It’s trying on four different shirts and still getting to the coffee shop painfully early. She wears jeans and lets her hair down around her face, and she forgets to take any food from his plate. So does he.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Step seventeen is an autumn day, a walk through crispy red and orange leaves and a woodsmoke-scented breeze flapping at their coats. They talk about friends and the hospital and everything, and she smiles with her eyes. He doesn’t expect her to follow him to the door, but she does, and he opens it, trailing up the hallway to the living room behind her.  
  
“Spoons!” she declares as he’s hanging up their coats. He holds his breath. “I knew you had a thing,” she says, sounding pleased.  
  
“A thing?” He scrubs at his hair and comes to join her, bemused.  
  
She looks up, fingers pressed to the glass covering his shiny collection. She laughs. Shakes her head. Kisses him.


End file.
